“Yes.” He straightens his tie, as if preparing himself for something. “I was wondering if you would like to go out with me next weekend.”
My face falls.
“Like on a date?” Harry whispers, mortified.
“Yes,” Tristan replies, unrattled. “Like on a date. I would like to be your boyfriend, Claire Anderson. What do you say?”
Chapter 18
“She says no. That’s what she says,” Harry snaps. “What a stupid question—as if she would go out with you, anyway.”
My mouth falls open as I stare at Tristan. What in the world? This is not taking it slow at all.
He smiles sweetly. “Well?”
“I . . .” I look around at my children. Patrick is smiling hopefully, Harry is glaring at Tristan, and Fletcher looks like he’s swallowed a fly.
“I . . . umm . . .”
“Well, you did say you were ready to have a friend again,” Tristan says. “Someone to go to the movies and out to dinner with. A boyfriend, if you will.”
I have no words; this man is the living end.
“And as I see it, you have four choices,” he continues.
I frown. “I do?”
“Yes.” He carries on with his sales pitch. “You can go out with that man you met in Paris.” He pours us each a glass of water from the table jug. “However, that would mean that you all have to move to France.” He sips his water with a casual shrug. “And of course, Muff Cat and Woofy can’t move to Paris, so they would have to move in with me.”
The boys’ faces fall in horror.
“I am not moving to Paris,” Harry snaps in an outrage.
“Me neither,” Fletcher whispers angrily. “No way in hell.”
“Me three,” says Patrick.
Tristan’s eyes dance with delight. I see what he’s doing here.
“I don’t know; Paris may be good for us.” I smile.
“No way, Mom,” Harry whispers angrily. “You can forget about it. I’m calling Grandma; she won’t like this at all.”
“What are the other choices?” I ask as I play along.
“You could go out with Pilates Paul,” he offers.
“Oh, he’s nice.” I smile sweetly. “I do like him. Great choice.”
Tristan looks at me deadpan. “He’s boring, Claire,” he mutters dryly.
“But so handsome, right?”
Tristan narrows his eyes, and I bite my lip to hide my giggle.
“I’m getting a headache,” Harry says as he holds his temples.
“No, Mom,” Fletcher snaps. “That’s just embarrassing. He wears a pink sweatband around his head to Pilates.”